S&SS [04] The Poison Priestess

by Karen Azinger

  “Noooo!” Danly scuttled into the corner. “I don’t want to die!”

  The master’s voice cut through his panic. “I bring you a choice.”

  He clutched at the straw. “What choice?”

  “Justice will be served.” The shadowmaster was a stern pillar cloaked in black. “Even in the dungeons, the traitor prince is a threat to the queen and her rightful heir. That threat must be eliminated. So I bring you a choice, the axe or the knife.”

  Danly shuddered. “I d-don’t understand.”

  The master gestured to the executioner. “The axe offers a quick and painless death, far more mercy than you deserve.” He pointed toward the red-robed apothecary. “Or choose the knife. Keep your life but lose your manhood and be exiled from Lanverness on pain of death.”

  Danly covered his manhood with his hands. “That’s no choice!”

  “It’s more choice than a traitor-prince deserves.”

  Danly’s stare skittered around the cell, a trapped rat seeking escape, desperate for another way. The cell door gaped open, a tantalizing hope, so close but yet so far. Needing a diversion, he spit in the master’s face and danced sideways, avoiding the soldiers while angling for the door.

  “Seize him!”

  Soldiers leaped to obey, but Danly was quick, squirming away from outstretched arms. Desperate for a weapon, he grabbed the chamber pot, hurling the brown sludge at the nearest guard. The stinking night soil struck the soldier in the face. Blinded by filth, the guard howled a curse, clawing at his eyes. Danly scampered past. Straining against his shackles, he lunged for the door. The white-whiskered apothecary blocked the doorway…but the old man chose to step aside.

  Danly slipped past, sprinting for the promise of freedom…till a massive hand grabbed his neck. He squirmed but the hand tightened like a vise, dragging him back to the cell.

  “No!” Danly fought, but the burly executioner yanked him to his toes. Shaking him like a rag doll, the executioner held him before the queen’s shadowmaster.

  The master’s face was a mask of wrath. “Justice has finally caught you.”

  The soldier covered in brown stink drew his sword, his voice a smear of anger. “Let me gut him. This one doesn’t deserve a quick death.” He stepped towards the prince, his sword poised to strike.

  Danly flinched from the hate in the soldier’s eyes.

  “No.” The master’s order stopped the sword stroke. “He’ll have his choice.” The shadowmaster’s stare drilled into the prisoner-prince. “Do you know how Lord Turner died?”

  Danly shook his head, knowing he did not want to hear this.

  “He died screaming, cooked alive in a cauldron of boiling water, a parboiled traitor.”

  Danly’s stomach convulsed but there was nothing to spew.

  “You deserve the same fate, yet I give you a better choice.” The master stepped close. “Decide.” The word stabbed like a knife. “The headsman’s axe…or the castrator’s knife?”

  Danly squirmed but the executioner held him fast. He stared at the shadowmaster but he knew he’d get no quarter there. His mind skittered in desperation, searching for a way out, and then it came to him. “The queen!” Danly thought he saw a flicker of hesitation in the master’s cold stare. He latched onto the thought like a drowning man. “The queen wouldn’t do this! Not like this! There’d be a trial, everything done above board and in the light of day.” Laughter bubbled out of him, a mad sound tinged with desperation. “You’re acting without orders.” His voice dropped to a whisper, one conspirator to another. “Never usurp the Spider Queen’s power. She’ll turn on you…as she turned on me. My mother eats her own. She’ll eat you alive.”

  A fist punched Danly square in the jaw. His head whipped back, an explosion of pain, yet the executioner held him firm. Danly coughed, spitting blood, realizing he’d bitten his tongue.

  The master leaned close, his face enraged. “Never speak ill of the queen.”

  “You hit me!” Danly’s words held a royal outrage, but then he realized the master’s icy demeanor was shattered. He giggled. “You’ve slept with her! The whore-queen and her shadow-toy.”

  The master drew a dagger, a sharp sting beneath Danly’s chin. “Decide or I’ll decide for you. Your head or your cock?”

  Death stared at him, cold and eager. Danly’s thoughts fled. He gripped his manhood, his voice reduced to a weak croak. “Not my life…”

  The master removed the dagger, his face a sneer. “You never were much of a man.” He stepped back. “Geld him.”

  “No!” Danly struggled, but the executioner held him firm. The shit-stained guard used a knife to cut away Danly’s trousers, ripping them down his legs. A rush of cool air on his privates brought a new wave of panic. “No, you can’t do this!”

  Another guard knelt to unlock his leg-irons. The clink of iron sounded like a death knell.

  “No!” Danly kicked and fought but the executioner was too strong. The big man muscled him toward the chopping block, pressing his back down on the bloodstained wood. Danly arched his back, struggling to wiggle free, but the executioner slammed him down, forcing his bare buttocks against the hard wood.

  The red-robed apothecary leaned close, his voice dry as leather. “Spread his legs and hold him tight.”

  Soldiers grabbed Danly’s legs, pulling his thighs apart, like a maid spread wide before the rape.

  “No!” He could not believe this was happening to him. Danly’s mind exploded in fear, a gush of stink erupting from his bowels. “Don’t do this!”

  The apothecary forced a wooden rod between Danly’s teeth, his voice a calm whisper. “Two cuts and it will all be over. Two cuts to make a man into a maid.”

  Danly felt the knife against his privates, cold and keen. And then the screaming started…a scream from the depths of his soul, from the very depths of hell.

  3

  The Priestess

  A fiery scent pervaded the market, leaving a searing heat on her tongue. The Priestess licked her lips like a cat tasting cream, firespice, a taste to burn away all others. For those born beyond Radagar’s borders it was a formidable flavor, a remnant of the scorching desert brought to Erdhe by nomadic warriors, but although she was not native-born, she liked the heat.

  Food sellers hawked their wares, offering roasted lizards skewered on sticks, grilled chicken hearts cooked with onions, and rounds of pan-fried bread, everything saturated with the all pervasive firespice. The Priestess wandered the clogged stalls of the royal market, enjoying the fiery scents. Rings on her fingers, golden sandals on her feet, she wore crimson robes of the finest silk and a veil across her face, a mark of wealth and refinement. A faint breeze ruffled the silk of her robes, just sheer enough to be almost indecent. Almost, she smiled feeling the piercing stares of greedy merchants and jealous women following in her wake.

  Trailing a hand across bolts of silk, she admired the vibrant blues and exotic yellows, another echo of the desert past. From the sheer silk veils, to the scantily dressed pillow-slaves, to the exotic aphrodisiacs and the all-pervasive firespice, she took the pulse of the royal city. The market proved little had changed in the mercenary kingdom. Radagar’s royalty liked their meals spicy and their pleasures hot. But pleasures were something the Priestess knew very well. A man’s appetites often held the key to his defeat, especially a king’s. The Priestess hid a knowing smile; she’d come to Radagar to turn up the heat.

  Snapping her fingers, she summoned her steward, Otham. A tall imposing man with a bald head and a square jaw, he lengthened his stride and inclined his head, his voice a deep rumble. “Yes, mistress.”

  She gestured to a fabric seller. “I’ll have the bolt of lame, the gold cobras stitched on sheer white silk.”

  “As you wish, mistress.” Otham went to do her bidding, yet she was not alone. Three guards followed at a discrete distance, three of the thirty she’d brought from the Isle of the Oracle, all of them clad in ordinary fighting leathers, all of them excellent swo
rds. She knew Radagar well enough to be wary; hence the guards trailing in her wake, yet the danger only heightened the market’s pleasure.

  So many sights and smells, the great market brought a rush of memories, as much a source of entertainment as trade. A muzzled bear danced for copper coins while a fire breathing juggler spouted gouts of flame. Sweat-stained mercenaries gave exhibitions of sword strokes, thrilling a cluster of small boys. Salt sellers hawked their wares amongst merchants selling toadstones guaranteed to thwart any poison. The exotic next to the ordinary, such was Salmythra, the capital city of Radagar, a boil of intrigues, poisons, and mercenaries…a place where the Priestess felt at home.

  She flowed through the crowd to the market’s heart, to stalls cluttered with bright bottles and stoppered flasks where the herb-witches and apothecaries plied their trade of potions. Rare elixirs and exotic ingredients held the promise of passion or death. Sensing a customer, a shrewd-eyed crone leaned from her stall, proclaiming the virtues of her brews. “A love potion to bind the heart of your paramour and keep him forever true!”

  A competitor shouted, “An elixir of Calamint, pledged to cure your lover’s wandering eye!”

  “Ointment of Lady’s Mantle to enhance the beauty of your breasts!”

  “Tincture of Aarach to extend your man’s stamina! Rampant like a bull in heat, he’ll give you hours of pleasure for a single silver!”

  Amused, the Priestess passed them with a knowing smile. Salmythra was famous across Erdhe for its aphrodisiacs, but nothing bottled or brewed could compare to the power of her own allure. When it came to the secrets of the bedchamber, she had no rivals, yet she’d come to the market for a purpose. Ignoring the sellers of potions, she finally reached the stalls of fresh ingredients. The market of Salmythra sold ingredients to healers or assassins, life and death sold side by side. She strolled among the stalls, surveying the offerings with a practitioner’s eye. The market was well stocked despite the lateness of the season. Fresh leaves of purple belladonna, the rootstock of hellebore, bark shavings of black locust, and jars of the rarest snake venom all stood on display. So many poisons, so many cures, but nothing unique, nothing she did not already have in her own chest of ingredients, the harvest from her garden of deathly delights. Yet the Priestess persisted, needing something fresh, something with a double entendre, a message within a message.

  Most flowers were out of season, so an herb or a poison would have to serve. A sprig of bright green caught her attention. Intrigued, the Priestess turned toward the stall. The leather-faced merchant was quick to fawn. “Madam has a keen eye.” He fondled the leaves, extending a bundle toward her. “Old Latham offers the finest mistletoe in all of the great market. Strong enough to make a barren woman fat with child,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “or powerful enough to put passion to your lover’s rod.” He gave her a wicked grin. “A stiff rod is a good thing.”

  Her veil hid her smile. “How was this harvested?”

  “Cut from the top boughs of a mighty oak and dropped into a white cloak.” The merchant gave her a knowing look, “Old Latham sells only mistletoe that has never touched the ground, ensuring the full potency of the magic.”

  She gestured toward a bundle in the back. “Let me see that one.”

  “Ah, so the lady knows her lore.” He offered the bundle with a wink and a nod. “White berries for healing, but the rarer red is best for passion.”

  She checked the leaves, lush and green, and the berries, ripe and red, a fine specimen. “Yes, this will do.”

  Otham stepped forward to pay the old man, not bothering to dicker. The Priestess turned away, intending to leave the market, but the seductive notes of a flute caught her interest. The sinuous melody led her to the market’s edge, to a young boy sitting cross-legged before a basket. A pair of royal cobras, hoods flared, danced to the lilting song. Snake charmers were common in Radagar. The descendants of the desert-born were enthralled by the deadly serpents, but the boy displayed an uncommon gift, working two cobras at once.

  Intrigued, the Priestess watched the performance, studying the boy. A long tumble of auburn curls hid his eyes, but beneath the filth lay a cherub’s face, pretty enough for a harem, beauty wasted on the market. The tempo of the flute increased. The cobras hissed, fangs exposed, hoods flared wide, following the weave of the music. Death and beauty entwined…another double entendre. The possibilities were delicious. She gestured for Otham. He leaned close to hear her whisper. “I might have a use for this one. Clean him up and keep him near.”

  Otham nodded. “As you wish, mistress.”

  She turned, a veiled swirl of crimson and gold, and made her way back through the maze of city streets. One of her guards drew close, taking Otham’s place, his hand on his sword hilt, his gaze alert. The streets were busy but none dared do more than stare, commoners making way for the veiled lady and her guards.

  She reached the inn where she’d rented a nest of apartments and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Two guards stood watch on the balcony. One snapped a salute while the other rushed to open the door.

  The bustle of the streets receded, replaced by a shadowed sanctuary of silks and incense. Her handmaidens, Tara and Lydia, sank to deep curtseys. She waved them away, along with the guards. “Leave me.” Veils fluttered to the thick carpet, freeing her face. She shook out her long raven-black hair, a shimmer of darkness. Taking a deep breath, she entered the inner chamber, where the silver scrying bowl waited.

  Shrugging off her robes, she knelt naked on the scatter of pillows, staring into the silver bowl. Water waited in the bowl, clear and placid. Taking slow deep breaths; she stilled her mind, reaching for the Darkness within. The Priestess closed her eyes, yearning for the touch of the Dark God. Her thoughts turned to the Isle of the Oracle, to the ancient well hidden in the hawthorn grove. Words of ritual sprang to her lips, invoking the ancient power. She swayed to the rhythm of desire, feeling the nearness of her Lord. The shadows coalesced. A weave of Darkness settled across her shoulders like a lover’s embrace. Cold seeped into her skin, an inhuman touch. “Yours to use.” Her breath misted in the sudden chill.

  Darkness clasped her from behind, hard and insistent. Power spiked through her as the Dark Lord claimed his Priestess. She writhed with pleasure and moaned with pain, arching her back with each thrust. And then she was alone, abandoned on the pillows, a sheen of sweat like dew on her skin. The Darkness was gone but an undercurrent of power remained. She thrummed with sexual power, like molten lava coursing through her veins.

  The Eye of the Oracle awoke.

  A power throbbed between her breasts, a second heartbeat full of dark designs. She removed the slender chain from her neck, freeing the great moonstone from its clasp. The oval gemstone filled her palm. A legend of darker times, it glowed pale like a winter moon.

  Bowing in homage, she settled the moonstone into the scrying bowl. The water hissed and churned, swallowing the gem with a clash of power. The Priestess held her breath, knowing the Eye had a reputation for claiming the life of the user…but not this time. The surface calmed and the waters turned midnight-black, a mirror of the Dark Lord’s Oracle.

  She leaned forward, her raven hair cascading around the bowl, creating a veil of shadows. The water lay dark and still, devoid of any reflection. She breathed on the surface, casting her power into the scrying bowl. “Show me the servants of the Dark Lord.”

  Colors swirled across the water, sharpening to images, giving her a bird’s-eye view of a blond haired man escorted by soldiers in black and gold armor. A forked banner rippled overhead, midnight-black tipped in bright red, the dreaded Darkflamme, the battle banner of the Mordant. Needing to be sure, the Priestess focused her will causing the image tightened on his face…the same face she’d seen Awakened in the monastery. The Mordant reached for his armies in the north, but he was not yet crowned. There was still time to make her bid for power.

  She blew a ripple across the water and focused her thoughts on anothe
r. The scene shifted to an arrogant man, dark and handsome, astride a roan stallion. Steffan rode at the head of a vast army. Halberds gleamed in the morning light as they marched south at a ground-eating pace. “Hurry, Steffan, now is the time to strike.” He glanced aloft as if listening, but she knew it was only an illusion; communication was beyond the power of the Eye.

  “Show me more.” Ripples pulsed across the water, changing the scene. The Eye showed her a young man haggard with fever and pain, writhing on a straw-covered wagon bed. She recognized his face, the eunuch prince released from the dungeons, a hidden dagger against the throne of Lanverness. Plans percolated in her mind. She’d keep a close watch on the fallen royal, hoping he survived…but first she had another prince to catch, a contender for a different throne.

  A wave of dizziness assaulted her. The Eye fed on her power, a relentless pull, but she was not yet done. The Priestess focused her will, drawing the last of her power, searching for a prince from her past. She saw him then, turbaned and proud, full of schemes and Darkness, his face achingly familiar. Once she’d served him, but that was before the Dark Lord. Soon the tables would be turned, the student now the master. She looked forward to this evening, to a triumph long awaited.

  The scene shifted and she saw other faces, other minions of Darkness, but none interested her half as much as the first four. Her vision blurred. She gasped, sagging back on her heels, caught in a wave of dizziness. Her body was drained by the Eye. She needed to feed on a lover’s passion. The dark waters bled to clear. The gemstone sat dormant at the bottom of the bowl, as dull as bone.

  The Priestess reached for the gem. She cradled the moonstone against her breasts, whispering a promise. “Tonight, between silken sheets.” The dizziness passed, as if appeased, and she rose to her feet.

  She crossed the room and knelt to unlock the large rosewood chest. Turning the skeleton key to the left instead of the right, she avoided the trap of poison-tipped needles. The lock clicked open, releasing the familiar scents of dried herbs and dark ingredients. Her gaze caressed her secret hoard, taking a silent inventory. Honeycombed with drawers and hidden compartments, the chest held a lifetime of collected lore. Stoppered bottles, slender vials, and drawstring bags held her harvest from the Isle of Souls. She knew each component by name and by nature, so many ways to death, but her panoply of poisons would not be needed tonight. Instead, she released the catch on a secret drawer, removing a small velvet bag. Unwilling to risk the Eye at the prince’s court, she slipped the moonstone into the bag and returned it to the drawer, a single treasure hidden amongst a hundred deaths.